Hiding My Twin Heirs from the Ruthless Prince

CHAPTER 73

POV: Celeste

Time stops behaving normally in the tower.

It does not move forward the way it does for other people, measured by seasons and celebrations and the slow accumulation of memory. Here, it stretches and folds in on itself, days collapsing into each other until I am no longer certain how old I am without counting backwards from my brother’s voice when he visits.

At first, I count nights.

Then I count books.

Eventually, I stop counting at all.

The only thing that reminds me the world still exists is sound.

It reaches me sometimes, thin and distorted, like a dream bleeding through stone. Music first—distant flutes and drums, laughter carried on air that never quite reaches my skin. I sit up when I hear it, my heart racing, my palms pressed flat against the cold wall as if I can push my way through it by listening hard enough.

“A festival,” I whisper to myself.

I know the pattern now. Late summer brings music. Autumn brings bells. Winter brings silence so deep it feels like the tower itself is holding its breath. Then spring arrives with faint hammering sounds—repairs, banners, preparation.

Life, continuing.

I am fourteen when I hear fireworks for the first time.

The sound startles me out of sleep, a sharp crack followed by a low rumble that vibrates faintly through the stone beneath my feet. I stumble out of bed, my heart pounding, and press my ear to the iron door.

Another explosion blooms in the distance, followed by cheers.

My throat tightens.

“They’re celebrating,” I murmur.

I don’t know what for. A treaty. A victory. A royal birthday. It hardly matters. The important thing is that it isn’t for me.

I sit on the floor until the sounds fade, until the night returns to its familiar, suffocating quiet. When I lie back down, sleep does not come easily. My thoughts spiral instead, circling the same question they always do.

Do they remember me at all?

Maximilian still comes, though less often now.

When he does, he looks different every time—older, sharper, his movements more controlled. He carries himself like someone who is learning how to be watched. His clothes grow finer. His voice steadier.

But his eyes soften every time he sees me.

“I’m sorry I missed last week,” he says one night, setting a bundle of food on the table. “They’ve increased my lessons.”

“It’s all right,” I say quickly. “I understand.”

I always say that.

He brings news, carefully chosen. Trade agreements. Border disputes. Names of nobles I’ve never met. He tells me about court life in fragments, as if giving me too much might break something.

“They’re preparing for the coronation,” he says one night, his voice quiet.

My breath catches. “Already?”

“Father’s health is failing,” he replies. “It won’t be long.”

The words echo in the small room.

“Does… does anyone talk about me?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates for half a second too long.

“Not anymore,” he admits.

Something inside me sinks.

“They remember the tragedy,” he continues gently. “The lost princess. But it’s distant now. A story.”

A story.

I nod, forcing myself to breathe evenly. “That’s probably for the best.”

He watches me closely. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“I know,” I say.

But knowing doesn’t stop the ache.

The days between his visits grow longer.

I fill them with reading, with pacing, with pressing my palms against the walls and feeling the wards hum beneath my skin. At first, the wards hurt every time I move too fast or think too hard. Now, they feel… familiar.

Like a second pulse.

The warmth inside me changes again.

It is no longer wild or reactive. It no longer flares only when I am afraid. It coils and stretches in the quiet, testing the boundaries of the cage around me. When I concentrate, I can feel it pressing against the wards, probing for weaknesses.

The pain has dulled into something bearable.

Something almost inviting.

I practice without meaning to.

I focus on the lantern flame and feel the warmth respond, slow and deliberate. The flame bends toward me, elongating, stretching unnaturally tall. When the wards push back, I brace myself and hold on.

The pain comes—but I endure it.

Each time, it lasts a little less.

Each time, the warmth feels stronger.

I start dreaming differently.

No longer of windows and sunlight, but of stone cracking. Of iron bending. Of air responding to my will like a living thing. I wake with my heart pounding, my skin tingling, the echo of power humming beneath my ribs.

I don’t tell Maximilian.

He already carries too much weight.

***

Another festival comes and goes.

This one sounds larger than the others. Music swells louder, closer. Fireworks shake dust from the ceiling, fine particles drifting down like ash. I stand beneath it, staring upward, imagining colors I cannot see.

I wonder what they are celebrating this time.

The answer comes weeks later, carried on Maximilian’s voice when he finally returns.

“They’re announcing the coronation date,” he says.

I freeze. “Yours?”

“Yes.”

The word feels heavy, real in a way his promises always have.

“When?” I ask.

“Soon,” he says. “Very soon.”

Hope stirs despite everything. “Then… then you can free me.”

He nods, but there is something strained in his expression. “Yes. Soon.”

I don’t press him. I don’t ask why his voice wavers. I cling to the promise instead, the way I always do.

After he leaves, I sit alone in the dark, my thoughts racing.

Soon.

Soon.

Soon.

The warmth inside me hums louder, restless.

Time stretches again.

I hear the coronation preparations before I hear the coronation itself. Hammering. Shouting. The constant movement of people beyond the walls. The palace feels alive in a way it hasn’t in years, vibrating with anticipation.

On the night of the coronation, I hear bells.

They ring and ring and ring, their sound carrying through stone and iron until it fills my chest. I press my hand over my heart, imagining Maximilian standing tall, a crown settling onto his head.

King Maximilian.

My brother.

My savior.

Tears slide down my cheeks before I realize I’m crying.

“It’s almost over,” I whisper to myself. “I’m almost free.”

The bells fade. The night falls silent.

No one comes.

The next day passes. And the next.

Days turn into weeks.

Maximilian does not come.

Panic gnaws at me, sharp and relentless. I pace the room until my feet ache, my thoughts spiraling into darker places. The warmth responds instantly, surging and pressing hard against the wards.

This time, I don’t stop it.

The wards flare painfully, bright and punishing, but I hold on, teeth clenched, forcing the power outward. The stone wall shudders beneath my palm. A thin crack appears, no wider than a hair.

I gasp, stumbling back, my chest burning.

The crack remains.

I stare at it, my heart hammering.

I did that.

The realization is intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

If Maximilian does not come…

If the promise breaks…

I sink to the floor, my back against the wall, my fingers tracing the crack in the stone.

The kingdom has forgotten me.

They sing and celebrate and crown kings while I rot in the dark, remembered only as a tragedy that makes a good story.

Something hardens inside my chest.

If they have erased me so easily—if my life can be reduced to a lie and an empty coffin—then I will not wait quietly anymore.

The warmth coils tighter, darker, more patient than it has ever been.

I am no longer just surviving.

I am becoming something they will remember.